Black Angel's Wings
by Delilah Draken
Summary: [WIP] Out of the ashes of a fallen man a warrior will arise, formed through battle and death his lost soul will fight for the right to call itself pure. From the shadows of darkness, from the pits of hell, hear his call...
1. Prologue

**Title:** Black Angel's Wings  
**Author:** Delilah Draken  
**E-Mail:** delilahsdarknessyahoo.de  
**Website:** www.delilahsdarkness.de.vu **Rating:** PG-13 (for now)  
**Fandom:** Star Wars, Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
**Pairing(s):** n/a (for now)  
**Sequel/Series:** n/a (for now)  
**Status:** Work In Progress  
**Started:** August 17, 2004 - 12:06 hrs  
**Finished:** n/a  
**Disclaimer:** The stories are mine. All the rest - characters and locations you've heard of in TV shows, movies, books etc - belong to their respective owners. I am just borrowing them.  
**Summary:** Out of the ashes of a fallen man a warrior will arise, formed through battle and death his lost soul will fight for the right to call itself pure. From the shadows of darkness, from the pits of hell, hear his call...  
**Warnings:** some for violence, a bit of language - nothing graphic.  
**Author's Note:** This, dear reader, is my version of what should have happened after Spike got his 'soul'. So, for the entertainment of the masses, enter a suicidal maniac with a taste for elaborate torture and make him the 'soul' of one bleached blond vampire. 

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**_- / - Black Angel's Wings - / -_**

by  
Delilah Draken 

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_- Prologue -_

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Pain. All consuming pain. It finds its way through his body like water always finds a way to the ocean. It cannot be stopped, cannot be denied, can never be forgotten.

In pain he finds punishment for sins beyond imagination, finds solace in the black void that is supposed to be his mind. When bones crack and blood flows, when skin burns and games are played, he is sure of his cause. Knows the reason why, if not how. Knows and yearns to forget. But allowed to follow that path he is not. Won't ever be if it were only him.

Pathetic, he calls himself. Screams at the darkness within his soul. Pleads for forgiveness. And still knows with such clarity that forgiven he can never be. Forgiven can only be those who truly repent. But regret seems like the sun, always close though never his to take. Never his to take.

And such he cries. Cries with all his heart and lets tears of crimson fall to the forbidding earth. Gives his broken heart one last chance of freedom before he takes his price. And a price it will be. Maybe not for him - for him it is a promise of judgement, of payment that changes hands as it changes lives - but for those who deserve it.

To give her what she deserves. That were his words. That is his wish.

May the Darkness have mercy with us all...

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- / - / - / -

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The sounds of battle have led her to this forlorn place. Have kindled in her a flame she told herself no longer existed. Brought her to find her way to a memory that is no allowed to remain.

She stands between stones and moss grown deathbeds of the rich, beautiful palaces only built to house mouldering bones, and watches a deadly dance in its perfection. Never before has she seen the likes of this ethereal elegance. Never before did it go through her mind that yes, he truly is a fighter.

Never before, two small words that can destroy all meaning. Two words that have the power to change it all. And thus she keeps her silent vigil, watches him kill. Watches him smile in true happiness because this, the bloodshed and violence are what makes him what he is.

To live one has to bleed, he once told her. At the time she couldn't find much wisdom in his words, but now she understands. Sees his act around the others as what it was intended to be, namely an act, a face to show so that others may not be repulsed by the truth. But she was never repulsed by him, by his deeds and his nonexistent remorse over it. No, never. If she were asked what her thoughts were about him, her only answer would be and can always be the one. He is beautiful when he fights. That is the truth, the one certainty in a world so full of chaos.

That is the reason why she waits till he is finished, till the last drop of blood has kissed the earth and wind carries away the ashes of the fallen. This is why only now she allows herself to run to his side, throw herself in his arms and just hold him. Hold him till most humans would gasp for breath. Hold him so tight that most would find it painful. Hold him to make sure that he is really here, really back for good and won't ever leave her again.

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- / - / - / -

  
  
He touches her face, feels the tears that cover his fingers and has to suppress a sigh. What a mess, he thinks. What a terrible mess did you leave for me to repair? The question echoes through his mind, waits for an answer, an explanation as to why, why in the name of all thirteen Sith hells he is punished in this way.

But of course, there is no answer, no voice of wisdom to quell his doubts. And so he holds this sobbing bundle otherwise recognizable as a dark haired girl. Hopes that nobody who knows his face will see him act in such out of character a way and whispers words of nonsense and comfort in her ear. To show her he cares. Even if it is all an act.   
  



	2. Chapter I

**Author's Note:** My deepest apologies for the long wait. I don't have any other explanation for this huge time span than that lost my muse to write this story. But when you look upon my other stories you may realize that seven months is not the longest a reader had to wait for and update.

I hope you like what I've written so far. Have fun reading.

Delilah - March 19, 2005 

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_- Chapter I -_

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He watches the stars. His gaze follows invisible lines to form pictures, creatures that inspired writers of old to bring their stories into form, make them into songs to listen to in times of distress or inspiring wisdom with the power to change the world. He follows the gleaming light of the eternal companions till there is nothing but the milky emptiness that precedes the coming dawn, questions their knowledge, waits for an answer that he knows will never come.

The stars are beautiful, he thinks. Full of everlasting beauty, though as deadly as a secretly given poison. They show you a world in peace, harmony reached through silence, but nothing is as it seems. The night cannot exist without noise, without its predators that clean the streets of those unworthy the guilt their remnants may inspire when found, of those that seek the danger in their pursuit of pleasure and thrill. A predator, following not only instinct but the wise teachings learned in a time long gone, can find enough to feast without endangering the balance, this fragile equilibrium of things that to disturb is as dangerous as kissing the sun's smiling face in the moment of night's death.

The awaking light begins to hurt his eyes, makes them sting with the promise of protective tears that will only fall when he deems the moment right. Dark glasses, hiding his visual sensory organs behind shadows soothingly placed between his gaze and the world, seem to become a necessity again if he so wishes to function according his standards while others cover in fright behind locked doors and hope the day will never find them.

The girl is not asleep. He can feel her watching him, following his motions, measuring them against every memory she has of this vessel known in books as a demon's host but in reality as nothing but his own body, and finding him lacking. Perfect in all expectations she has of him, but still lacking something she can't grasp, can't understand what is missing that makes him so different from the dear friend that left her months ago.

In this moment he pities her. Honours her wish for knowledge, wisdom in the eyes of harsh daylight, but pities her nonetheless because he cannot give her what she seeks, cannot answer her silent plea for an explanation of what changed. Cannot help her because the same need to ask that haunts her mind disturbs his thoughts as well.

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- / - / - / -

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She knows he can feel her eyes on him, knows that it doesn't disturb him one bit to be seen in the way she sees him right now. In earlier times when found in such a situation he would put on a show for her, make her giggle in embarrassment like the big brother she has always known he is to her till she would turn around and give him the privacy he needs to finish what he began. Now there are no jokes, no frighteningly accurate stories of true or imagined adventures, nothing but a silent man accepting her gaze like it is her place in the scheme of things to look upon his unclothed form.

He is doing some kind of kata, an unfamiliar form of fighting technique that seems to require a sword, but as there is no bladed weapon at hand he used a long metal rod for his training. Strange to think that he never trained before, never used any of the traditional ways to keep his body in shape. Didn't he once tell her that his kind doesn't need these things, that they only need a workout every once in a while to keep muscle memory intact?

She ponders the thought while the vampire begins dressing, though to call what he does dressing would be the same as calling a masterpiece like the Mona Lisa simply a pretty picture. There is a science to what he does, a systematic ritual he obviously knows by heart but seems to never have performed before as he stops sometimes to think about one thing or another. How he wraps the light brown, sand coloured she corrects herself, bandages around his body is an art in itself, metre upon metre of the material vanish in an intricate crisscross that hides even the tiniest pieces of skin from view. Everything but his head. Next come trousers, the black jeans he cherishes so much, boots and a t-shirt. Somehow it looks ridiculous to see his mummified arms come out of the tight shirt. She has to keep herself from laughing, does she not want to disturb his concentration. Now comes a knee-length wraparound tunic with a wide cowl that when worn properly could keep his face in shadows on even the most windy of days. Gloves and his leather coat complete the ensemble.

Impressive, most impressive, she thinks with a hidden smile as she quotes a movie villain and is stricken with terror at the same time because he opens the doors to his crypt wide. She is nearly at his side, prepared to slam the door shut and smother any flames that may have come to life due to his short exposure to sun light, when she realizes that nothing happens. No smoke, no wincing exclamation of pain suppressed because of pride, nothing but a leather clad hand reaching up to tuck the cowl deeper in his face and some hidden bandages over pale skin, to make the shadows that guard him more powerful.

"Come, my princess. I believe this is no place for a young lady." And this is another point to add to her growing list of strange things that make her friend someone completely different and still the same black knight she always knew. The voice, this dear instrument that is able to growl menacingly and quote ancient poetry in the most silken of tones at the same time, is not used in a way she remembers. The carefully constructed accent that was supposed to hide some secret she never was able to pry out of him has vanished completely, only to be replaced by something foreign sounding. Something she has heard before, if only in a poor copied way now that she's listened to the real thing.

Without thinking about the consequences she takes his outstretched hand and walks with him over the threshold separating darkness from light, only knowing that whatever new secrets her friend may protect are not hers to keep. When the time comes for her to get her answer she will be prepared to hear them, even if she won't like what she will learn. Patience was never a virtue she followed easily, but for now she will have to let it guide her way. 


	3. Chapter II

April 04, 2005.

_- Chapter II -_

He remembers a time when he felt nearly nothing, no regret, no pain, no loss. Everything seemed to have lost its special glimmer, this certain kind of light that makes life bearable. Days slowly melting into another, hours flying by without him realizing time is supposed to be an enemy not a lover caressing a long lost fantasy. A body losing the last remnants of humanity, following a path destined to lead to never ending darkness, where imprisoned behind ebony walls of destruction his heart transforms into something even his cruel imagination can't fathom calling monstrous, diabolical, evil.

He remembers a life so far removed from what he knows, its tantalizing beauty, poetry written in crimson liquid dripping from a loving blade, beyond everything an uninspired soul as his own is capable of comprehending. Remembers love lost and never found again. Remembers a heir crying out in the throws of agony, screaming for the help of a father who doesn't deserve the honour of the name, pleading for assistance that will never come, can never come because really, the boy managed to get into trouble all on his own. But help arrives just in time, comes waving glorious banners of revenge and freedom right in front of a black knights desperately searching gaze, and saves the day by letting a despot fall into a conveniently placed gorge, saves all that remains of his lost life by relinquishing what is left of his own time.

His son will live, now it's time to die.

Now it's time to die...

Though, if he allows himself to think about it, that isn't how he left the mortal plain. Even if it was only of a short moment, this memory definitely does not show the reality of his last breath, does not even come marginally close to the pathetic truth of his descent past the borders of purgatory.

/ - / - / -

There aren't many things that bring joy into his heart, fighting and killing perfect examples for what makes his heart sing, but imagining elaborate plans to elegantly acquire what is not supposed to end up in his hands without paying an exorbitant sum is a sport his teachers just couldn't get out of his system. It still makes him smile, remembering their faces, their reaction when learning about his latest misdeed.

And here in this temple of shiny nonsense, he crosses the infinite waves leading towards what he seeks, following the lead of a princess, a heiress on the threshold to great power. Though he is tempting fate in parading around the town beside this girl, there is a certain knowledge, a distinctive something he cannot grasp but...

His eyes find two faces he did not expect to meet in this place, two desperate little boys playing at being grown up and dangerous. Two young men, heads filled with a thousand stories and a gift to create, instinctively calling out to all those able to hear the sounds of their silent cry, looking for someone powerful enough to guide them, be their master. Well, if they wish to serve, he'll give them what they need.

With a tiny tweak to hide himself, he stands behind them, softly tapping their shoulders. The smell of fear is saturating the air, surrounding him, filling his nostrils and nearly sending a smile to his lips. Not that anyone could have seen his face light up with the curved line that most sentient societies would have named a smirk, even had he not hidden his face under the traditional face wrappings of a desert's people. True emotions only show on the inside, his best friend once taught him that, right after performing the ritual honouring the eternal suns.

"I greet you, younglings." Terrified the two who are the last surviving members of the once Terrible Trio turn around, already knowing that fate has played them a terrible hand. He can hear their hearts pounding, the blood rushing through their veins. It inspires hunger in him, a kind of hunger he already thought defeated and nothing more but water on the burning rocks of a Krayt's bed.

His hand pushes a recording device into the hands of the covering men, a small computer filled with all the data, all the plans to build the machine that will separate him from the voice that constantly demands his ear. In three days time they will return, either with the construct in their hands and only dreading what will happen to them if they deceive him, or empty handed and wishing that death would be the only punishment dealt out to them.

With his black coat billowing majestically in a wind that only exists because he wishes it, he leaves his new servants and again takes his place in the shadow of a future queen. He can feel her annoyance at letting her wait on the sidelines like the child she believes herself to be, the child everyone else sees when looking at her young face.

Though seeing a child behind her ancient eyes is a feat he couldn't even accomplish after ripping his eyes out. This woman, chained to a form she obviously despises, imprisoned behind a mask of green energy, knows what the future has in store for her. Prophesies are wound around her skin so tight that to break them would destroy her very core, and to destroy her is the last thing on his mind.

"Why were you talking to them?" she asks him, her voice full of artfully concealed contempt. She makes it no secret of her feelings toward his servants.

"This is a question I cannot answer, milady." His voice is cold, controlled, everything he strives to be but never finds enough piece of mind to truly become.

"Can't or won't?" An eyebrow of hers has changed position, sign of the inquisitiveness in her query. "And don't you dare lie to me. I always know when you lie."

"As you do not wish for any falsehood in my words, princess, you will have to contend yourself with my silence."

/ - / - / -

This new improved version of her friend seems to enjoy infuriating her as much as the old one did. Only, if her eyes don't play tricks with her, he really doesn't want to make her angry, he enjoys the challenge, but would be just as happy with her babbling about some stupid idea or other.

Everything to hear her voice.

Everything to make her smile.

What a disturbing thought to have at this moment. What betrayal is secretly waiting for its time, waiting patiently to battle all her hopes? And is she ready to fight back?


End file.
